


Brother, You Will Return

by placentalmammal



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dogs, Epilogue, Fluff, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8786515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: Magnus Burnsides, after everything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So listen to the darkness, listen to the patterns  
> Listen to the breathing sea  
> Listen to the colors, carry them inside you  
> They will bring you back to me  
> In the breaking light ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yjzBRxOPF0E))

Everything he owns fits into a single trunk: clothes, bedding, dishware. During his time with the Bureau, he has accumulated _things_ : weapons, mostly, a few rings, a cloak, a gauntlet. He leaves all of that behind; he won't need it any more.

The fight is over. Magnus is laying down his axe and shield.

Over the years, he has acquired a small fortune. He spends it all on a little farm outside of Neverwinter. Buys it off an old couple, heading into retirement. It isn't much, a one-room cabin and a cluster of misshapen, leaking outbuildings, but he thinks that it could become something like home.

He was a carpenter before he was a fighter, and he goes to work as soon as he has the deed in hand. He cuts new boards for the floor, mows fresh thatch for the roof. He orders glass for the window, walks the long road to Neverwinter to buy varnish for the shutters. The walls are whitewashed plaster, the wooden floor is strewn with reeds. He keeps his hands and minds occupied; he sings to himself to keep the silence at bay.

He is lonely. Without Merle, without Taako, without Julia. Without family, he is a solitary man. Without family, he lacks context, will, purpose. While the house is still in ruins; that can be his purpose. When it is fixed, he is at his wits' end. Without something to live for, without a cause, who is he?

Just Magnus Burnsides. Just nobody.

( _A deserter_ , thinks the vicious part of himself. _A murderer! A monster! A coward and a traitor and a fool!_ )

The first dog is a gift. Carey and Killian come to visit, to see his empty, snug home. They see him, utterly alone on his little farm, turning up the soil and tending his garden, and they take it upon themselves to drive his loneliness back. One morning, they venture to Neverwinter and return with Mitts, a three-legged hound dog.

"She's yours, now," says Killian gruffly. "Take better care of her than yourself, hear?"

At first, it's strange, having another living being in his home. Mitts is wary; Magnus more so. They circle one another, they posture, they feign indifference. But neither has much use for pride, and before long, Mitts is sleeping in his bed. For the first time in years, Magnus feels some semblance of peace.

Mitts' company feels so natural, that Magnus doesn't hesitate when Merle offers him a second dog. Paul is a terrier, a scruffy mutt with a wiry coat and viciously sharp teeth. He's wary, he's mistrustful, and he takes a long time to warm up. Magnus sees something of himself in the tiny creature, sees something of Taako, sees something of Merle. At night, he ushers the dogs into his bed and talks to them, speaks honestly about his nightmares and about the ordeal of life. The dogs listen, and they lick his face and fall asleep in his arms. He washes their fur with his tears.

This is what healing looks like, for him. A pack of mangy dogs and a tumble-down farmstead. Partner and Howie and Leo and Pepper join Paul and Mitts, and their number slowly swells into the double digits. Word gets around: if you've got an unwanted dog or an unwelcome litter of pups, bring it out to ol' Magnus. He'll see to it.

No dogs on the moon, nothing but dogs on the Burnsides homestead. It's a welcome change. Not so long ago, life was interminable, a race to the end. Days stretched out into weeks, time passed without meaning. On the farm, time is gentler, no longer an enemy. Death--once a welcome guest--becomes a distant relation, a ever-present stranger. Entire weeks go by without nightmares, without grief. _This is survival,_ he thinks. _This is moving on._

It still hurts. Of _course_ it still hurts. He's lost everything twice over, lost a family and a home and a wife, and lost everything he's regained. The gains don't outweigh the losses--he thinks they never will--but his loss becomes manageable. His grief shrinks in weight rather than magnitude, and he can set it aside, temporarily. There are dark days, days spent in the shadow of the valley of death, but there are good days as well. For every funeral, a wedding. For every death, a birth.

With him, through it all, the dogs. His pack. An adopted family, warm fur and wagging tails. Warmth and life and vitality, a new purpose. His dogs are old, are one-eyed or three-legged or stiff or senile, but he loves them all the same. He feeds them, strokes their fur, whispers kindnesses in their velvet ears. They die in his arms, comfortable, fulfilled, loved. Through them, he becomes more himself.

Time passes. Everything changes. But through the dogs and the land and continuing correspondence with his old friends, he learns to reframe his grief, to find meaning in loss, to pick up and carry on despite everything.

He lives. He survives. He endures.

And it is difficult, but it is _enough_ , and that is enough to send him to his knees.

**Author's Note:**

> I am very drunk and I did not proofread.


End file.
